


We shall this day light such a chandle

by GreenGlitchBitch



Series: Good Omens [15]
Category: Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury, Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Burning Bookshop, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley loves Fahrenheit 451, Crying, M/M, Panic Attacks, Quotes from the book, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), until he doesnt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27037246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenGlitchBitch/pseuds/GreenGlitchBitch
Summary: Crowley was not very likely to read almost any book ever written. There were, however, some exceptions. The largest of these exceptions belongs to Crowley’s favorite book, Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621834
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	We shall this day light such a chandle

**Author's Note:**

> So, this came into being, because I read a short fic recently, where Crowley drunkenly quotes Fahrenheit 451, and it got me thinking. Crowley would probably really love that book. There are so many parallels in it to his life (which are touched upon in this fic), but then I also realized that he probably could never read the book again after the bookshop burned down, so I wrote this. I'm a huge fan of the book, it's my favorite book ever written, followed closely by none other than Good Omens. I've been reading the book for about 3 years now, I started back when I was a junior in High School, we read it as a class, and I instantly loved it. I love books with deeper meanings, and quotes that resonate deeply with me, some of which I used in this fic. In the fic, Crowley is mentioned to have highlighted parts of the book, annotated it, added notes. I actually do that with my own copy. There are entire pages of highlighted quotes in my book, because it's so thought provoking. But, I just really really love the book, and I really think Crowley would too, before the Bookshop. If you haven't read the book, this fic might not make a ton of sense, but the book isn't necessary to understand the fic. But, if you like dystopian novels, with deep philosophical messages, and very interesting plot, I would definitely check it out. It can be a confusing book at times, but all in all, it's a fantastic work of literature, and my favorite singular book of all time! Just to let you guys know, almost everything in italics is a quote from the book, except for the few that are from Good Omens. So, I hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> Title is taken from a famous quote by Hugh Latimer, just before he and Nicholas Ridley were burned at the stake in 1555. "Play the man, Master Ridley; we shall this day light such a candle, by God's grace, in England, as I trust shall never be put out"
> 
> Also, trigger warning for panic attack from Crowley, and some depressing thoughts.

_ It was a pleasure to burn _

Crowley knew that feeling all too well. The desires of a demon to watch the whole world burn with the fire they started. To be the last one standing over a pile of ash that once was everything. It was a desire Crowley hated. He liked the world, and everything in it. There were so many wonderful things the world had to offer, including his favorite book. Aziraphale has a misconception about Crowley and books. In his eyes, the demon would be more likely to admit he was nice than pick up a book, and read it,  _ and _ enjoy it. This was only half true. Crowley was not very likely to read almost any book ever written. There were, however, some exceptions. The largest of these exceptions belongs to Crowley’s favorite book, Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury. First published in 1951, Crowley had heard people discussing the book, bought a copy for himself, and became enamored with it. It was unlike any other book he’d ever read, of which there were not many. The philosophy behind the text was striking. The dystopian world the story took place in was beyond fascinating, and beyond all that, Crowley felt a very deep connection with the book's main character, Guy Montag. A Firefighter in a world where the firefighters burned houses found with books, seeking the knowledge held within books, almost subconsciously.

He feels out of place in the world around him, finding no comfort in the people closest to him, not even his wife. He meets an old professor named Faber, who lives in a hidden Tower of Babel, and gives him the knowledge he seeks, leads him along the right path to convert others to the world of books. In the end, Montag is cast out from society, labeled a criminal, an outcast by everyone he ever knew, and he meets a band of others like him. They too sought out the knowledge held within the pages of a book, and they too were thrown from society, some barely escaping with their lives. They teach Montag their ways, and tell him one day, books will be desired again, and they will lead the revolution.

The first time Crowley read the book in its entirety, he found angry, hurt tears streaming down his cheeks. He threw the book across the room, and stalked to his bedroom, to sleep off the rage the book had awakened in him. But, he found he could not forget it. A week later, he was reading the book again. He felt anguish when certain passages and scenarios the characters found themselves in hit a little too close to home, but he didn’t put it down. He read the book all the way through, and found he understood it. He understood Montag, he understood Faber, he understood Clarisse McClellan, he even understood Captain Beatty, who reminded him very much of Him, with his silver words, and his twisting of the truth, and just how much he knew.

_ There’s too many of us. There are billions of us, and that’s too many. Nobody knows anyone. Strangers come and violate you. Strangers come and cut your heart out. Strangers come and take your blood. _

__ In many ways, Crowley felt too connected to the book. In his mind, he was Montag, ever seeking knowledge, even after falling for that desire to know. Aziraphale was his Faber, guiding him to properly, and safely learn and share his knowledge. The forces of Heaven and Hell were Mildred, only ever focused on their tasks, never stopping to smell the roses, or look at the man in the moon. She was Beatty, filling his head with lies about complacency, that the world was what it was, and it was best this way. He was Granger, cast out from society with Crowley, leading a revolution behind the scenes, helping convert more to their cause. And Clarisse McClellan, she was the angel he used to be, always wanting to know, to learn. Wondering about the ways of the world around them, considered strange by those around them, before their untimely end, too soon for those who cared, and not soon enough, for those who didn’t.

For decades, Crowley read the book, over and over. He even went as far as having Ray Bradbury sign it for him, his copy so well loved, so read, it was near falling apart. He read it at least once a year, and had many passages and quotes underlined, highlighted, annotated. He made notes on the sides of pages, he compared certain passages back to other books, even to the world he lived in now. And through it all, it remained his favorite book. Until one rainy August day, in 2018. 

The bookshop was on fire. The bookshop, Aziraphale’s bookshop, his angel’s bookshop, was burning to the ground. And his angel was nowhere to be found. Not in the shop, the area, the city, nowhere in the world, could he feel his angel. There was only one explanation. Aziraphale was gone, dead, murdered by Hastur and Ligur, simply for interacting with Crowley once every few years. Crowley felt a spark of anger light in his chest, and he was suddenly glad he had killed Ligur with Holy Water. Tears of pain, sorrow, and loss streamed down Crowley’s cheeks, as he picked up Agnes Nutters book, and left the burning building behind, to drink himself into a hole, and hopefully, Armageddon wouldn’t take it’s time. Who cared about the world ending anymore? He didn’t. With Aziraphale gone, his world was over. 

_ It was a pleasure to burn _

Not anymore.

Crowley drank himself into a stupor, blurting out his life story to everyone in the bar. Didn’t matter, he and everyone else would be dead soon anyway. They wouldn’t live to remember what the drunken demon was telling them. As he took another pull from a fresh bottle of whiskey, Crowley remembered something Montag once said to Faber.

_ That’s the good part of dying, when you’ve nothing to lose, you run any risk you want. _

__ “Got it in one, Montag” Crowley said to himself, raising the bottle in a silent toast to nobody in particular, before taking another drink. Hastur and Ligur had taken away the one thing he had to lose in this world. Time to run any risk he wanted. But, what if it hadn’t been Hastur and Ligur alone. Crowley and Aziraphale both knew that Heaven did not think very highly of Aziraphale. What was it that Beatty had said?

_ Serenity, Montag. Peace, Montag. Take your fight outside. Better yet, into the incinerator. Funerals are unhappy and pagan? Eliminate them, too. Five minutes after a person is dead he’s on his way to the Big Flue, the Incinerators are serviced by helicopters all over the country. Ten minutes after death a man’s a speck of black dust. Let’s not quibble over individuals with memoriams. Forget them. Burn all, burn everything. Fire is bright and fire is clean. _

_ A problem gets too burdensome, then into the furnace with it. Now, Montag, you’re a burden. And fire will lift you off my shoulders, clean, quick, sure; nothing to rot later. Antibiotic, aesthetic, practical. _

__ Crowley clenched his jaw, made a fist in anger. Hastur and Ligur were not working alone, there was no way of that. Heaven was in on it too, he just knew it. He wasn’t about to let them get away with this. They murdered his angel. Pushed him into the furnace, lifted him off of their shoulders with the quick, clean and sure fire. Well, time to run any risk he wanted. And right now, Crowley wanted to risk it all.

“‘Everyone nowadays knows, absolutely is certain, that nothing will ever happen to me. Others die, I go on. There are no consequences and no responsibilities. Except that there are.’ They burned my angel, I’m going to burn them to the ground” Crowley said, voice dripping in anger, and She knows, he would have done it too, had it not been for Aziraphale.

It was finally over. Armageddon had been stopped, the world was saved. Crowley and Aziraphale sat on a bench, waiting for the bus, all the while passing a bottle of moderate wine back and forth.

“Crowley, what happens now?” Aziraphale asked, turning to the demon, who didn’t bother looking back. He knew if he did, he would lose what little composure he had left. He couldn’t find his words, so he borrowed a few from the book.

“‘There was a silly damn bird called a Phoenix back before Christ, every few hundred years he built a pyre and burned himself up. He must have been first cousin to Man. But every time he burnt himself up, he sprang out of the ashes, he got himself born all over again. And it looks like we’re doing the same thing, over and over, but we’ve got one damn thing the Phoenix never had. We know the damn silly thing we just did. We know all the damn silly things we’ve done for a thousand years and as long as we know that, and always have it around where we can see it, some day, we’ll stop making the goddamn funeral pyres, and jumping in the middle of them’” Crowley said, reciting the quote like it was nothing. He’d been reading the book for decades now. He could have recited the entire book from front to back for Aziraphale right now, if he asked.

“Crowley, I didn’t know you read Bradbury” Aziraphale said, astonished. Crowley shrugged his shoulders, not trusting his voice to be used a second time. It was silent between the 2 beings, until the bus came, and then it was silent some more, all the way to Crowley’s flat, where the silence followed them inside. Only then did Crowley find his voice, if only for a moment.

“I don’t know about you, but I need a drink. I’ll just pop into my kitchen, pick up a bottle of two, and I’ll be back” Crowley said, and Aziraphale nodded, busying himself with the remains of Ligur. Crowley nodded back, not knowing what else to do, and walked into his kitchen. There, sitting perfectly harmless and innocent, was Fahrenheit 451, exactly where he’d left it, the bookmark still in place. Crowley eyed it carefully, before grabbing a bottle of wine, when thoughts and feelings that he’d been holding back for so long, barreled through his mind.

_ What is there about fire that’s so lovely? No matter what age we are, what draws us to it? It’s perpetual motion; the thing man wanted to invent, but never did. Or almost perpetual motion. If you let it go on, it’d burn our lifetimes out. What is fire? It’s a mystery. Scientists give us gobbledegook about friction and molecules. But they don’t really know. Its real beauty is that it destroys responsibility and consequences. _

_ You must remember, burn them or they’ll burn you. _

_ It was only the other night everything was fine and the next thing I know I’m drowning. How many times can a man go down and still be alive? I can’t breath. _

And Crowley found he too, could not breath, try as he might. His useless breath quickened, and he fell to his knees, distantly hearing the crashing and shattering of the bottle he must have dropped. He knew if he touched his face, his hands would come back wet with his tears.

_ He saw the moon low in the sky now. The moon there, and the light of the moon caused by what? By the sun, of course. And what lights the sun? Its own fire. And the sun goes on, day after day, burning and burning. The sun and time. The sun and time and burning. Burning. The river bobbed him along gently. Burning. The sun and every clock on the earth. It all came together and became a single thing in his mind. _

_ The sun burned every day. It burned Time. The world rushed in a circle and turned on its axis, and time was busy burning the years and the people anyway, without any help from him. So if he burned things with the firemen and the sun burned Time, that meant that everything burned. _

__ Crowley tucked his face into his knees, wrapping his arms around his head, curling in on himself as much as he could. He still could not breath. Distantly, he heard a familiar voice, but he couldn’t make out what it was saying. He felt a familiar weight on his shoulders, but he couldn’t feel the touch.

_ There is no ‘our side’, Crowley! It’s over! _

_ Somebody killed my best friend! _

_ We are an angel and a demon, we have nothing whatsoever in common, I don’t even like you! _

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley.  _

__ And suddenly, he was back in the bookshop. All he could smell was smoke, and fire, and the burning pages of hundreds of old books that held so much knowledge within their covers. It was as if the Firefighters of his book had come to life, and Aziraphale was their prime target. A house filled with books, a veritable Tower of Babel. What Beatty would give to have the honor of burning that house down. Who’s to say he didn’t? What were Aziraphale’s last words? Did he even have any last words? Did he leave the shop, or choose to stay, and burn with the books he cherished beyond anything else in the world? Crowley didn’t know, and for once, Crowley didn’t want to know. All he did know was, his angel was gone, and he was alone, well and truly alone, for the first time in 6000 years, and for the rest of eternity. He felt arms wrap themselves around his shoulders, gently rub up and down his back, slowly, prompting him to take long, deep breaths. He did. His tears slowed, his breathing evened out, and the voice speaking to him finally came into focus.

“-that’s it. Breath, darling. It’s alright, we’re safe, I’m here” Aziraphale said, and Crowley had to keep breathing slowly, to stop himself from going into a panic, this time over his angel being alive.

“Ziraphale?” Crowley asked, softly, and he knew the angel smiled.

“Welcome back, dear. You scared me there for a second. Are you alright now?” he asked, and Crowley shook his head.

“What set you off?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley took a moment to answer. He considered lying, but he could never lie to his angel.

“I thought you were dead, back in the shop. I-i ran in to get you out, and you were gone. I couldn’t feel you. There was nothing. I was fine, until I caught sight of my book on the counter. It all came flooding back to me, the fear, the loss, the panic. I thought I was never going to see you again” Crowley said, his voice failing to stay steady, like he’d wanted it to, and he buried his face into his angel's shoulder, and cried. Not panicked, no. This time, they were tears of both relief and sorrow. He was mourning and celebrating all at once, and the confliction in his chest hurt him terribly. Aziraphale brought a hand up to his head, and curled his fingers gently through Crowley’s hair, cradling his head, protectively. Distantly, Crowley heard the rustle of feathers, and a warmth on his back, and he realized Aziraphale had wrapped them in his wings, forming a comforting space.

“I’m here, love. I’m not going anywhere again” Aziraphale said, miracling the book somewhere in Crowley’s flat. Crowley wouldn’t find it on accident, he wouldn’t allow that. But, if the demon ever wished to read the book again, of his own volition, he would find it immediately. For now though, both angel and demon were holding each other, neither wanting to let go. All thoughts of firemen, and burning books, and Beatty were thrown from Crowley’s mind, as he sat on the floor of his kitchen, in the arms of his angel. Montag, in the company of his Faber once more.


End file.
